


Strings Attached

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Rated teen for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 05:03:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: Grif finds a banjo for Simmons on a supply run.





	

Grif did a double take when he saw it. There was no reason why it should be there, in the trashed fueling station. But there it was, tucked behind the broken slushie machine, which was definitely not what he’d originally been looking for, it just happened to be right next to the, uh... Dropping the empty plastic cup he’d been holding, Grif reached behind the machine and pulled out-- Jesus Christ, was this real?-- a banjo.

A motherfucking banjo.

He ran his hand over the neck of the instrument then flipped it over to inspect the backside. Worn, covered in dust, chipped in places, and-- he plucked a string-- way out of tune. But it had all its strings.

Grif didn’t know much about banjos, he was more of a ukulele guy. What he did know was that whoever had owned it before had taken care of it. They had also hid it behind the (tragically) inoperable drink machines. Grif wondered if the person who’d left it there planned on coming back for it.

Meh. Finders keepers.

Anyone else would have put it back, maybe even smashed it for shits and giggles. This was a supply run, after all, and Grif already had enough shit to carry-- namely, supplies for his stash, which was depleting at a terrifying rate because Bitters kept finding it. Retrieving snack food was about the only thing that Dexter Grif deemed worthy of his time and energy.

Until now.

Did he return the banjo to its hiding place, keeping his… uh, the army’s supplies he found? Or did he empty the contents of his pack onto the floor of the station and shove the banjo inside?

“Captain Grif? Can we go?” one of the Feds called over.

Grif pretended not to hear and continued to fiddle with the brackets. It was a really nice banjo. Simmons could play the banjo. He’d only mentioned it like, a thousand times. Fucking nerd.

“Goddamn it,” Grif grumbled. Placing the string instrument on the counter, he reached down and unzipped the duffel at his feet. With the speed and finesse only a sloth could appreciate, Grif hoisted the bag up and tipped it upside down. Snack cakes, beef jerky, potato chips, chocolate, and other delicacies rained down from the open duffel, spilling out across the floor. Grif gazed down at the sad pile of junk food, his hopes and dreams dashed before his eyes-- and by his own hand, no less.

He told himself he’d regret this later, when his stomach was growling and that little shit Bitters was making off with the last of his candy. Grif told himself this was a mistake. Whether or not he believed that… well, he didn’t feel like digging too much into that.

With a heaving sigh he scooped up the banjo, stooped down, and tucked it into the duffel.

“Captain Grif!”

“ _What_?” Grif barked, resting the duffel bag in the crook of his arm. God, all this heavy lifting was wearing him out. He deserved a nice long nap, which he would have, because he was a _captain_.

“Can we go now?” The Fed whined. The others turned to look at Grif, who shrugged.

“Well I’ve got all I’m willing to carry,” he said. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

______________________________

“Grif! Grif!”

Grif, who was in the process of sneaking down the corridor in Blue’s side of the barracks, hugged the bag of chips he was carrying closer to his chest. It was a gut reaction, really, but you could never be too careful.

The orange soldier tipped his head back to look over his shoulder at Caboose, who was bounding down the hall towards him, wearing nothing but his boxers. Grif contemplated asking the grinning Blue to put on some goddamn pants, but that would mean _he_ would have to put on pants, and he just didn’t have time for that.

“Grif!” Caboose stage-whispered.

“What, Caboose? Jesus!” Grif growled as the Blue skidded to a halt beside him. Caboose smiled down at Grif, who was regretting taking this particular route. But it was the fastest way to the armory, and Grif was all about cutting corners.

“Grif,” Caboose whispered. “I almost did not recognize you without your yellow armor.”

“It’s fucking orange!” Grif snapped.

“Shush.” Caboose glanced at the door to Tucker’s room. “We don’t want to wake up Tucker and Agent Washington. Yeah, they already yelled at me once because I, ah, didn’t knock and accidentally interrupted their training session.”

“Their wh-- you know what, I don’t wanna know.”

Turning his back on the Blue soldier to indicate he was finished with this particular conversation, Grif sauntered off down the hall. And, because the doofus couldn’t take a hint, Caboose followed.

“Don’t you have, I don’t know, team leaders to kill?” Grif asked as they turned the corner into the armory. “Kimball’s room is back that way.”

Caboose didn’t answer, which was odd, because you could never get the guy to shut up. Grif glanced at the soldier next to him out of the corner of his eye. Caboose was staring at the orange soldier’s back. Or, more specifically, the bag on his back.

“Grif, are you going camping?” Caboose asked.

“What? Fuuuck that!” Grif snorted. “Camping.”

“Oh good,” Caboose sighed. “Because you can’t go camping with only a banjo. Wait.” The Blue’s voice dropped and he asked, “Why do you have a banjo? Is it to fight off the bats?”

“Bats? What bats?” Fuck, Grif hadn’t thought of bats. Were there bats on Chorus? Maybe he should do this later, when it was light out. Not because he was afraid of bats, or anything. It was just that it was dark and he should _really_ be getting his beauty sleep.

But there were more people around during the day, and Grif hated questions almost as much as he hated being accused of having a crippling fear of bats.

Caboose had moved on to the latest distraction: the flickering light above the door leading outside.

“It’s been real, Caboose, but I’m gonna go now.”

“To fight the bats?”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“Shush-shshhhhh!”

Grif threw his hands up in the air, almost losing his grip on the bag of chips, and stomped over to the exit. He punched the button and the door hissed open. Caboose sprinted off in the other direction, chasing after something Grif sure as hell couldn’t see. Christ, he was like a dog who’d just seen a rabbit. God, just _watching_ the guy sapped Grif’s energy.

____________________________

When he reached the cliffside, he was out of breath and the bag of chips was gone. Grif crumpled it up and shoved it into the pocket of his hoodie. He’d deal with it later. Or Donut would when he did the laundry. Either way.

There was a light breeze shaking the trees, and far below he could hear the whoosh and roar of the waves as they crashed into the cliff. It kind of reminded him of home. You know, minus the war raging around him. Also there weren’t any fir trees where Grif grew up.

With a shake of his head, Grif went back to the task at hand. He’d reached his daily quota of nostalgia.

Collapsing to the ground, Grif removed the duffel bag from his shoulder and pulled out the banjo. He’d been fixing it up. Well, he’d dusted it off and tuned it, anyway. He knew jackshit about instrument repair, and while he loved Simmons he wasn’t about to learn a whole new trade for the guy.

Grif, clutching the banjo, forced himself to his feet once more. “Ugh.”

The orange soldier made his way through tall grass and gnarled weeds towards the edge of the forest, holding the instrument above his head. At least he was getting his weight-lifting for the week out of the way.

When he reached the treeline he stopped and squinted.

Where was it…?

There.

The grass had grown but it was still noticeably shorter than the growth around it. Grif knelt next the patch of grass; it was situated under possibly the saddest, scrappiest fir tree ever. But it was also the tallest.

He laid the banjo on the grass in front of the tree.

“Uh, sorry it’s missing a string,” Grif said. “I may have used it to pick the lock to Bitters’s locker. But he stole my potato chips, so.”

Grif was never one for speeches, so he just leaned over and brushed some pine needles from the slab. He traced the name on the stone.

Goddammit, there he went, getting all sentimental and shit. Even now, the maroon soldier was finding ways to get under his skin and piss him off.

Rising to his feet, Grif dusted his knees off and took a few steps back. He adjusted the steel string he’d wrapped around his wrist, folded his arms, and cast a final glance at the banjo lying in front of the tree.

“See ya, nerd.”


End file.
